


Like a Sword to Skin

by AcidNightmare



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22162297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcidNightmare/pseuds/AcidNightmare
Summary: On the way to a banquet in Rabanastre, Basch’s ship crashes deep in the heart of the wildlands. Close to death, he is at the mercy of any who finds him. Basch doesn’t anticipate recognizing his savior, but Basch also knows from experience that those who are dead never tend to stay that way.
Relationships: Vossler York Azelas/Basch fon Ronsenburg
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Self-indulgent wank for pretty much my original OTP, still love it 13+ years later

_“Are you alright?”_

_Vaan’s voice bubbled up through the cracks in Basch’s concentration, the world around him simply background noise that had faded to a smear in his periphery. Basch watched the fiery wreck of the Shiva as it billowed jet black clouds of smoke into the sky, pieces of the wreckage shearing off with a scream to crash against the ground in a twisted blaze. Basch felt his heart pound and reverberate in the hollow cavern of his chest, the blood pouring through his veins cold and sharp as ice. Vossler was still within the ship, wrong and wounded and guilty, by now surely dead as the fires roared and warped the blackened metal._

_Vossler was gone. He was gone, he was gone and Basch had never—_

_Basch was startled from his thoughts by Vaan’s hand on his shoulder, sun-kissed fingers tentative against his skin and the aged leather covering it._

_“Are you alright?” Vaan asked again, brows furrowed, eyes turned to the wreckage. “I mean, Vossler.” He trailed off awkwardly, his hand sliding from Basch’s skin._

Vossler. 

_It felt as though a giant fist was squeezing Basch’s heart to pulp the way it ached so._

_“He made his decision.” Was the cool reply that slipped from Basch’s lips. Indifference was the only weapon he could wield against the pain coursing through his nerves. Like so many other people and places in Basch’s life, all that he loved burned away and died leaving Basch scarred and empty and alive among the ashes._

“Are you alright?” The question from Basch’s memory and the question from Larsa’s lips coalesced into one liminal thought as Basch phased back to attention. Startled, Basch looked up from his desk to see Larsa’s concerned gaze, dark eyes inquisitive. He hadn’t even heard his lord enter the room.

“Yes, of course sire,” Basch replied, falling easily back into formality. “Forgive me, do you require anything?”

Larsa bit his lip and gave Basch an unconvinced look, but decided to continue forth to the reason for his visit rather than interrogate further.

“Nothing pressing, but I did receive an invitation you might be interested in.” Larsa flattened a small scroll over the papers littering Basch’s desk, a cursory glance revealing the Queen’s seal inked at the bottom corner below her signature. “There is a banquet and ball to be held celebrating the anniversary of Lady Ashe retaking the throne. This invite is extended to myself along with my retinue.”

Larsa gave Basch an appraising once over, hiding a smile behind his fingers. “Not sure how light you are on your feet for a dance, but I’m sure you’d appreciate seeing your former companions who remain in Rabanastre.”

And Basch would, he missed Ashe and Penelo and Vaan fiercely; he had received several letters from each of them and had written back his share, but had yet to see any of them in person for the past year since assuming the mantle of Judge.

“It would greatly please me.” Basch answered, skimming the flowery words of the invitation. He scowled as he reached the date of the event, glancing up at Larsa. “Yet this is in a fortnight; you already are slated for an appearance in Rozzaria at that time.”

Larsa sighed and crossed his arms, the purse of his lips giving away his true opinion on the matter. “Yes, I will already be graced at the time with Al-Cid Margrace’s undivided attention, so I came to ask if you would still attend in my place.”

“Your security detail to accompany you in Rozzaria—”

“Can be hand-picked by you if that would set your mind at ease.” Larsa’s hands fell to his hips, his pose beckoning no argument. “You have been my protector and confidante for a year now Basch, you deserve a few days to do as you please. I will be safe in the meantime.”

Basch knew that Larsa was right, that he had always been a child wise and compassionate beyond his years. And the pull of being able to reunite with his friends proved too tempting to resist.

“You will only have the best in my absence, sire.”

Larsa grinned in return. “I will have gifts sent along with you for the Queen. And make sure you give Penelo my best.”

Basch arched a knowing brow at the attempt at nonchalance, but Larsa was already retreating, rerolling the parchment of the invitation quickly in his fingers as he ducked through the doorway.

Basch couldn’t help the smile and shake of his head; for as shrewd and diplomatic as Larsa presented himself to the world, when it came to Penelo he was as transparent as any other thirteen year old boy with a crush. Basch thought it good for him; with such expectations and heavy demands already weighing upon Larsa’s shoulders it was heartening to see in at least one aspect he was still allowed to be youthful.

With a wistful sigh, Basch leaned back and pulled open one of the drawers of his desk, digging through the contents. He pulled out several parchments laced together, the documents listing the names and schedules of the entire guard staff of the palace. With that he pored over the documents, making a list of who he trusted implicitly with Larsa’s care in the case of his absence.

…

Twelve days later found Basch taking last stock of his inventory before boarding the aircraft shuttling him to Rabanastre. Without Larsa or the rest of his entourage in tow, Basch had decided to travel quietly on a two-man ship, the pilot already boarded and waiting for him. Larsa had left for Rozzaria the previous morning; Basch had seen him off, schooling his expression into solemnity when Larsa quietly handed Basch a sealed letter with Penelo’s name on it before climbing into the airship. The letter now was tucked carefully into the pocket of his vest, Basch letting his promise to hand it to the young woman personally go unsaid.

Satisfied that everything he would require for the next several days as well as the slew of gifts Larsa had sent along was all in order, Basch boarded the ship, taking position in the passenger seat as the pilot prepared for their ascent.

“Any preferences on our course today?” The pilot asked as he flipped some switched and gripped the controls, several lights flickering on as the man looked at Basch expectedly.

“What would you suggest?”

“Well if you’re in a hurry we can always go the direct route overland or if you’re of a mind for the scenic route we can take a course down the coast.”

“It would be nice to see the coast again.” Basch answered; despite the splendor and opulence of the Capitol, Basch had always appreciated the subtle beauty of the endless ocean and had not seen it since making the trek to Archades with Ashe and Vaan over a year past.

“Can do.” The pilot answered and with a gentle lurch the ship was airborne and speeding south.

Basch let himself relax; looking forward to the time he’d be able to spend in Rabanastre amongst friends. He watched as the ground passed by below them, the buildings of the city thinning out to vast green fields and valleys, then to mountainous stone, and then finally sloping down to waves of sandy dunes, the blue of the ocean glittering in the distance. It was as lovely as he remembered, sand and clear blue water stretching as far as he could see.

“I love flying this course,” The pilot said, flipping a switch and leaning into the controls to drop them closer to the ground. “I usually fly the city routes so it’s a nice change of pace.”

Basch hummed in agreement, distracted as he viewed the scenery race past the windows. As he watched, the ship suddenly dipped, the hull creaking in protest; components around them rattling. The pilot furrowed his brows before tugging back the controls to even out their course.

“Sorry, must have been a strong headwind.” The confused creases on his forehead remained though as he quickly took stock of the gauges and screens flashing in front of him. Basch watched as the pilot shifted in his seat, unsettled as more of the indicators began to flash angry red.

To his side, suddenly the pilot swore beneath his breath; he leaned forward, adjusting his grip on the controls and flipping several switches back and forth. Basch shot him a look as the console began to chirp with alarms and a heavy droning siren erupted from further back in the ship.

“This isn’t good.” The pilot ground out, his voice trained to be composed as he still scrabbled uselessly with the controls.

“Are we going to crash?” Basch’s voice was low and calm, but a vision of the Shiva appeared unbidden in his mind, choked with smoke, its hull black and twisted as it crashed against the unforgiving ground.

“Yes,” The pilot whispered, his voice drowned out by the shrieking of the alarms, unbridled terror in his eyes as he met Basch’s gaze.

And Basch wanted to know why, wanted to know what could be done before they struck the ground, but everything happened so quickly Basch couldn’t react. The ship lost altitude, gravity pulling them down to careen toward the sloping dunes of the coast as the alarm’s shrieks escalated in intensity. To his side the pilot still had a white knuckled grip on the controls, his face pale and determined as he tried to pull them out of their imminent spiral toward the sand. Basch took a deep breath and shut his eyes tight, bracing himself for the impact as time seemed to slow to a crawl, moments passing in heartbeats.

Then they hit.

The initial impact crumpled the front of the ship, the windshield shattering in an explosion of glass and metal. Basch was thrown against his restraints, the woven fibers cutting deep into the exposed skin on his neck, shards of glass imbedding deep in his face and arms. He couldn’t breathe; the wind had been knocked from him, leaving his body gasping desperately for air as the restraints tightened further. Choking black smoke poured into the cockpit from the engine room and Basch clawed at the restraints at his throat, the turbulence causing him to dig deep into his own flesh.

The ship kept its momentum, flipping several times, fire engulfing the back half of the ship as the metal husk crushed into an unrecognizable shape. Basch felt lightheaded, the lack of air making his vision go red around the edges. He distantly felt something sharp and metal cut across his face and for some reason it reminded him of when Noah had given him the prominent scar above his eye.

On its last flip Basch finally unbuckled the restraints and was thrown from his seat and the wreck, body tumbling brokenly along the dunes until he came to a stop, bleeding out on the sand. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the ship screeching and blackening as the fires twisted the hull. He struggled and gasped as air flooded back into his lungs, feeling as though he was swallowing salt and glass.

Basch tried to open his eyes, straining with the difficulty. His left eye refused to cooperate, the torn skin and numb muscle unable to respond. The left side of his face felt raw and exposed, the wind blowing sand and smoke against nerves and pulpy flesh no longer protected by skin. Basch was unable to lift his hand to investigate the state of his face and could not judge the extent of the damage. His right eye cracked open and the world was awash in red, his own blood staining his vision. He felt the flow of blood hot on his face, its metallic tang heavy on his tongue and lips. Everything tasted of salt and ash and fire, but Basch could barely swallow down the cloying taste, his throat bruised and ragged and feeling as though it was in tatters. His body struggled to yet breathe, the blood dripping down his throat threatening to drown him where he lay.

Basch tried to locate the pilot, regretting he had not bothered to learn the man’s name. He tortured himself by craning his neck far enough to get a view of the wreckage only to see a body red and twisted and unmoving amongst the glass and metal. Basch lamented that another good man was dead from his choices and let himself slump back into the sand, exhausted.

Basch felt mangled, felt almost numb from the sheer amount of pain. He had survived so much in his life, but Basch knew in his state that this would be his end, from blood loss or exposure or scavenging beasts, his body was too broken to fight against his fate any longer. Basch supposed he had been on borrowed time anyway living the last few years of his life as a dead man.

As Basch laid there, time seemed to melt away, leaving only pain and the impending knowledge of death; Basch let himself reflect, thinking of those he cared for as he approached his end.

Basch hoped that Larsa would remain safe, that he had chosen wisely the men who would rise up as Larsa’s protectors in his place. He hoped Larsa would also not feel too guilty about the circumstances of Basch’s death and regretted that he would not be able to see Larsa grow into the dedicated, capable leader Ivalice needed him to be.

Basch thought on Ashe, Vaan, and Penelo, how he was so close and yet so far from seeing them one last time. He wanted to know what the future held for Vaan and Penelo as they began their lives as pirates and he wanted Ashe to finally find happiness after a short life of such strife. He could not be the one to provide such for her, but he wished her to find someone who could.

Even Balthier and Fran, as flighty and mysterious as ever, were in Basch’s thoughts; he wished to see them once more, to know what life had in store for them since they both had thrown off the shackles of their previous lives.

And then as Basch inched closer and closer to death he finally let himself think of Vossler.

The name still made his heart pound weakly in his chest. He had compartmentalized his thoughts on Vossler for over a year, refusing to speak his name lest he finally succumb to the grief Basch had never let himself voice. It pained him greatly that the last sight he had of Vossler that had burned itself into his memory was of the older man with his head hung in shame, fingers weak as he gripped his greatsword, body and spirit broken at Basch’s own hand. For a year now Basch’s throat had burned with the words he’d left unsaid and the mistake he’d made by turning away and leaving Vossler behind.

Yet now, so close to his end he wondered if he’d finally be reunited with Vossler; if there was an afterlife perhaps he’d finally be able to tell Vossler all that he meant to him rather than let his secret hide and fester deep in his heart for years and years.

Basch also thought that there was some poetic justice about this end. He had watched Vossler die in a fiery wreck such as this one, had wondered at night while tossing and turning what had been Vossler’s ultimate end. Had he succumbed to the wounds from their battle, or had the ship crushed his body? Had smoke inhalation given him a quick death or had he died screaming as fires burned away every inch of his skin? It haunted Basch that he had never been able to investigate the wreckage himself, give whatever he found of Vossler a proper burial. To the world Vossler would be remembered a traitor if remembered at all, only to Basch would Vossler be a soldier desperately loyal to his homeland and the recipient of years of Basch’s unrequited love.

As Basch lay dying all of his regrets coalesced into single moments and memories he had with Vossler, points of time where he could have told Vossler exactly how his heart burned for him. Like the quiet moments bandaging each other in camp after a battle, or on the long walk to the barracks after training together.

If only Vossler had trusted him implicitly, things could have ended differently instead of once again Basch being forced to choose his duty and loyalty to the crown over his own heart when he and Vossler crossed blades as enemies.

Basch was unsure how long he laid waiting for darkness to take him when the sound of creaking wheels and quiet words roused Basch from his state between living and death. Basch willed himself to open his eye again to catch a glimpse of the approaching figures. Picking their way over the ground strewn with debris, three garif warriors advanced toward Basch cautiously. It was only when the three came close enough that their bodies were no longer distorted by the billowing smoke did Basch realize that they were actually two garif warriors and a hume dressed as such.

The hume had the hunched posture of the garif, but his shoulders were bare of dark fur, his fingertips sharp from gauntlets rather than talons, and the mask he wore simplistic compared to the hulking antlers the garif revered.

One garif crouched at Basch’s side, the other drawn to the tatters of the pilot, but Basch’s eye was still drawn to the hume who had ventured further, his attention beckoned by something glinting in the light of the fire. The man bent to pick up Basch’s helmet where it had been thrown from the wreckage. He stared into the black empty eyes for several moments, his grip around the metal horns tightening before he turned back to the rest of his group.

“It’s the Judge.”

And the man’s voice was deep and gravelly, distorted as it was by the mask but it struck a chord deep in Basch, he _recognized_ that voice, knew it, and the only intelligible thought in Basch’s head was that he needed to see beneath the man’s mask before he died.

“He won’t survive unless we get him back to the village healer.” One of the garif answered. “Bring around the nanna cart and we’ll see what can be done.”

Basch couldn’t keep his eye open any longer, he swam in darkness and distantly felt hands on him and the sensation of being lifted, but the blood loss was too much to fight, his body drifting and unable to cling to consciousness any longer.

…

When Basch woke again the pain was great enough to make him retch, though there was nothing in his body to expel. What parts of his body that could still move simply convulsed as he curled in on himself. Basch felt a pair of hands on him and then his chin was tilted back, a cool liquid poured unceremoniously down his throat. Basch tried to swallow but the agony made tears prick in his eyes, his hands subconsciously balling into fists.

“It will help with the pain; you have been through much, Judge, you must rest.” When the concoction was finally choked down Basch’s throat the owner of the voice stepped into Basch’s line of vision: an elder garif, his fur greying and his fingers gnarled.

Basch tried to speak but words wouldn’t come to his lips, the inner workings of his throat felt shredded raw and even breathing was a labor. He felt a bandage wrapped snugly around his neck as well as parts of his face and wondered just how extensive the damage to his body was.

“You must not try to move or speak. You are lucky to even still be among the living, Judge. If you had spent much more time out in the wild even my skills would not have been enough to save you.” The medicine man absently pulled up and adjusted the fur that had fallen from Basch’s shoulders as he had thrashed. “The damage was done, though. I managed to save your eye, but the left half of your face will be disfigured. You were quite a sight when the hunters brought you to me. Like a fruit half peeled.” The garif gave a morbid chuckle and turned to the small table next to Basch’s bedroll, busying himself by mixing another potion, pinches of herbs and petals and other earthen things making their way into a mortar. The medicine man continued to list Basch’s injuries as he crushed the ingredients to powder.

“Your voice should return in some days, but try not to strain yourself in the meantime. And as you should already know your limbs and bones will only heal with the passage of time. They’ve been set but the best you can do for them is to rest and try to keep your strength up.”

Basch tried to nod but that brought on another wave of agony and he simply let his head fall back onto the pile of furs, unable to even thank the garif for his life.

“I have other patients and duties around the village during the day, so the hunter who discovered you will stay with you in my absence. He is rather rough around the edges, but a decent hume nonetheless. Do not worry, Judge, you are under our protection in our village.”

The medicineman gathered a few things before taking his leave of the hut with a promise to return soon. A few moments later Basch could hear voices from outside, the garif who had just left as well as the hume whose voice he recognized. The hume was futher away and Basch couldn’t place the words, just a string of low angry sounds as the garif man placated him.

“I have tasked you to the Judge for your own sake. Until you give up this notion of revenge, the scars of your past will bind you and your hatred will rule you.”

Then the hume’s voice raised, dark and pained. “Have you loved before? If so then you’d understand my desire for revenge.”

A few more words passed between them before Basch heard heavy footsteps fading away from the hut. Several moments passed before the door being forcibly opened and closed signaled that Basch was no longer alone in the hut. Then slow scraping footsteps echoed around the edges of the walls, like a predator circling prey. Finally the garif pretender slunk into view, mask and armor still donned.

“Of all the Empire dogs I could have stumbled across in the wild, for it to be you broken and bleeding out before me must be some sort of divine intervention.” The voice was cold as it resonated behind the mask, the hume’s eyes ink black shadowed behind the eyeholes. He began to pace, boots heavy on the floorboard; his stride was angry and forceful and not once did he take his eyes off Basch’s prone form.

“Know Judge, if I had been alone I would have slit your throat where you lay and hastened your departure from this world. It was only for my companions’ presence that stayed my hand.”

The words were cruel but it was the voice behind them that still drew Basch’s attention. The voice was hard and clipped, but it washed over Basch like waves on a shoreline: familiar and soothing as they dragged him out to sea. He knew this man but his mind could not conjure the face that matched the voice.

“It would have been more than you deserved. You’re the reason he’s dead.” The man halted his pacing, his gloved hands tightening into unsteady fists. “But I will avenge him.”

The man turned toward Basch then, straightening his back as much as he could manage, his height still impressive among the low rafters of the hut. “So I suppose it’s only fair for you to know who will escort you from this world.”

Then the warrior removed his helmet, revealing lips turned down in a snarl and eyes bright and dangerous as any animal’s.

It was Vossler.

He was wild and scarred and angry, but it was Vossler, alive and whole.

Basch felt as though all the air was stolen from his lungs, he choked on the panic rising in his chest and his blood felt like hot venom spreading through his veins, thick and syrupy. He tried to speak but his body refused, leaving him silent in wide-eyed shock.

Vossler misunderstood the surprise, sneering in Basch’s direction, his voice a quiet growl. “Surprised to see me? Well don’t be, as I’ll be the last face you ever see, Judge.”

Basch could barely keep his thoughts straight, could barely fathom the fact Vossler had survived. His mind was brimming with questions he could not voice, but above all, some empty space inside of Basch lit up with pangs of hope, of happiness. It felt as though Basch had been offered a renewed opportunity to reconnect with Vossler and the dried husk of affection buried in his heart resurrected.

Vossler was a portrait of rage, though, all anger and scars and wounds. As Basch stared, heavy pangs of guilt began to slowly crawl up his spine, lying thickly in the back of his throat. With a sinking feeling Basch knew that if Vossler was alive then his hatred must extend not just to him as imitation Judge, as Gabranth, but also to Basch the soldier, as the man who had abandoned Vossler to die among wreckage after crossing swords as enemies.

Basch wished he could reveal the truth, reveal the farce. He would rather face Vossler as himself and hope they could work past their previous treacheries for the sake of returning their relationship to what it once was.

“I am _volunteered_ to watch over you as you heal, so that is exactly what I will do. When you finally have your wits about you and are no longer a pathetic shell lying broken in bed only then will I give you the release of death. I’ll even let you face it on your feet as a warrior, even if you do not deserve the honor. That is my promise to you Judge. I wonder if you gave him the same choice.”

Basch narrowed his eyes at Vossler’s words; listening as he once again made an unclear reference to a person he believed Basch should know as Judge. Some dead man from his past whom obviously meant much to Vossler. Basch couldn’t help the way his heart clenched tightly in his chest.

“I wonder if you gave any of them the choice. Think of this as retribution for all your unchecked years as Judge and Executioner.”

Vossler’s stare was cold and unyielding as he returned to the entrance, opening the door only to see the garif from earlier a short way across the field returning with a pack of supplies. Vossler was as silent as a crypt as he slipped out the door, leaving the healer shuffling over to Basch, wrinkled hands reaching for his bloodied bandages.

…

When Basch awoke again Vossler was in the shadowed corner of the hut brooding, looking the way Basch remembered him best. Splattered with dried blood and sprawled haphazardly on a roughly hewn chair, Vossler’s face was placid, betraying none of the thoughts churning beneath his expression. He looked strong, raw and dangerous; sizing Basch up with eyes smoldering like embers.

Basch could only follow his movements with one eye as Vossler rose, crossing the space between them to loom above Basch’s prone body.

“I suppose you’re wondering how I survived. If Ghis died and every other Imperial bastard died in the wreckage how could I have escaped with my life?” Vossler spit bitterly, his fingers pulling at the ties of his armor, the breast plate and back plate falling heavily upon the ground. Vossler turned, and Basch could see the curved ruin of his back in the low firelight, scars and welts and twisted flesh prominent from his shoulders down and disappearing below the hem of his pants. Turning back to face him, Basch could see the scars normally hidden by the metal and furs Vossler had taken to wearing, his skin a map of the pain he must have endured.

“I was crushed beneath a section of the craft, my spine broken, the rest of my body shattered from falling debris. I had accepted my fate, felt I deserved it, so I laid beneath the wreckage awaiting death. Yet the piece that crushed my back also sheltered me from the worst of the fires and protected my skull from being destroyed as well. I am unsure how long I laid beneath the ruins of that ship; only that it was long enough that the fires had burned low and a group of garif hunters felt it safe enough to investigate. They discovered me, found I still clung to life and managed to dig me out from the debris. I was brought back to their village where against all odds I healed.” He shrugged humorlessly. “Well to an extent. My body will never be the same, it is a pale, bitter shade of what once was, yet here I am. Whole.”

Basch’s gaze followed Vossler’s movement as he ran his fingers absently against a thick, silvery scar that twisted the flesh of his abdomen. He sneered as his eyes fell back on Basch. “Wicked men cling pathetically to life while noble men die in their place.”

Vossler had paced as he told Basch his story and then he returned to his chair, sinking down heavily at Basch’s bedside, eyes never once leaving Basch’s. Basch held the gaze, managing to get a clear look at Vossler now that his eye wasn’t blinded by dried blood and smoke.

Vossler hadn’t changed much. He sported new scars, some pink and fresh, some the puckered silver a year of healing had left him with; most were older still, their stories already well known by Basch. Vossler kept the same closely cropped beard, though his hair was longer, wavy at the back of his neck where it curled against his armor. The dark smudges below Vossler’s eyes were more pronounced, and a few strands of silver were tucked behind his ear, yet Basch had never found anyone more beautiful, his mind still unable to comprehend that Vossler was here before him alive.

“You still look at me like you’re surprised to see I live. Well get used to seeing me.” Vossler looked like he had more to say, but they could both hear footsteps approaching the cabin.

Vossler leaned close as he whispered, his voice low and cold. “Don’t die in your sleep and deny me the pleasure of eliminating you myself.”

Then he was up and out of his chair and opening the door for the healer, before disappearing again out into the night.

…

Unsurprisingly, Vossler was in attendance again when Basch awoke next from his hazy, tonic-saturated rest. He was stoic, concentrating on the whetstone in his fingers and the axe laid across his lap rather than Basch’s subtle movements amongst the furs.

The sound of the axe being sharpened was comforting to Basch, reminding him of the many nights he and Vossler had sat side by side clad in armor and sweat after a battle, cleaning and honing their blades. Vossler had retained his attentiveness and meticulous nature when it came to his weapon, and Basch could only watch and reminisce to the sounds and sight of Vossler being as he was in Basch’s memory.

Vossler eventually turned his head, catching Basch’s gaze. He continued on, testing a cautious finger to the edge.

“Worry not, this isn’t for you. I’m on firewood duty tonight.” The tone of his voice bordered on agreeable as he spoke of a job that wasn’t observing Basch’s sick bed.

Basch waited until Vossler turned his attention back to Basch, then used what little strength he had to hold up his hands, his fingers mimicking writing.

Vossler gave a derisive snort. “I won’t let you spin your lies, Judge. I’m not interested in knowing what you have to say.”

Basch let his arms drop, tired and hurt and frustrated. Vossler was incapable of looking past his hatred of Gabranth to see who truly lay before him. Basch knew that if only Vossler would look closely and see some of the scars hidden beneath bandages and furs that he would realize his mistake. The map of scars on his skin were ones they shared from so many battles together, souvenirs from the war where they had tended each other’s wounds in the aftermath, hands rough and bloody but achingly gentle. But Vossler would not look closely, dark eyes clouding when they met each other’s gaze and exiting the room whenever the healer would fold back the furs and unwind the soiled bandages exposing his bruised and mottled skin.

The frustration of not being able to tell Vossler the truth was driving Basch to the edge of sanity; with each interaction with Vossler feeling like a knife sliding between his ribs. The cold emptiness in Vossler’s eyes when he gazed in Basch’s direction pained him as deeply as the physical ruin his body had been left in. He gave up, lying back amongst the furs and exhaling heavily. It hurt that time and time again Basch found himself unable to reach Vossler, their paths intersecting and diverging without ever being resolved.

Vossler remained unperturbed, silent beyond the metallic slide of the whetstone on steel.

…

And so time passed that way; the pain of Basch’s wounds fading to aches that only sharpened when he moved and the maddening itch of torn flesh as the skin stitched itself back together. Try as he might though his voice was still absent, his raw throat unable to form the sounds. The medicineman seemed unalarmed by his lack of voice, but every few hours he still poured bitter tonics in Basch’s mouth, the taste and texture leaving him gagging.

Vossler remained silent more often than not, spending his hours at Basch’s bedside reading or tending to his blades or carving wood, anything to keep his hands busy and his attention pointedly off Basch.

One night as dusk settled and the silence between them bordered on indifference rather than hostility, Vossler broke the stillness, watching Basch with unreadable dark honey eyes.

“You might not believe it, but I have been tempered some by my time here in Jahara. After what transpired on the Shiva I was left with nothing but hatred and anger at myself for what I had done. I was a broken man physically, mentally, any way you could imagine. The garif gave me purpose after I healed. They pieced me back together, taught me their ways and encouraged me to give up the hatred in my heart.”

Basch’s own heart hurt at Vossler’s words. The regret of never returning to the Shiva’s wreckage ached deep in his gut and he wished he could find the voice to apologize. And then discover why Vossler’s hatred for Gabranth ran so deeply that even his garif saviors felt the need to break him of his anger.

“They did what they could, though perhaps I will always remain broken. They believe I will only recover once when I abandon my desire for revenge.” Vossler’s eyes flashed, the talons of his gauntlets tapping rhythmically on the arm of the chair. “While I believe my redemption hinges on it. I believe it would be cathartic.”

Vossler stood suddenly, stalking to the doorway. He hesitated for a moment on the threshold, but shook his head to himself before venturing out into the darkness.

Basch was lost; until he was able to prove his identity to Vossler there was a dagger suspended above his head and Basch never knew when it would plummet. Vossler remained blind and brooding and threatening and for not the first time Basch believed Vossler would kill him before he was able to reveal the truth.

…

Late into the night, a crash from outside the hut startled Basch from his reading. It had been a long, tedious day where Vossler had been suspiciously absent and one of the healer’s apprentices had been kind enough to lend Basch a book written in the common tongue, helping prop him up to read more easily before retiring for the night. Basch was halfway through, his candle burned down low when the noise disturbed him.

The noise revealed itself to be Vossler when he wrenched open the door, supporting himself on the doorframe as he drunkenly staggered inside. Vossler sunk bonelessly into his chair before taking a long drink from the jug dangling from his fingertips. He exhaled in appreciation before fixing Basch with an unfocused stare.

“I wasn’t even planning on returning here tonight,” Vossler slurred, fingers drumming on the jug. “It’s not as if you’re in danger of dying in your sleep any longer,” He paused again to give a humorless snort of laughter. “Well, not by natural means anyhow.”

Vossler sat back, tipping more alcohol down his throat and swiping over his mouth with the back of his hand. Basch could do little more than watch, fingers gripping the edges of the leather bound book uneasily.

Vossler continued to drink until the jug was drained and the candles burned down to stubs, the room dim and filled with swaying shadows. Vossler watched Basch a few moments longer, eyes dark and piercing before he heaved himself up from the chair, taking a few steps in Basch’s direction.

“I wasn’t always filled with this hate. For years I was just a soldier, I followed orders and I climbed ranks. I dedicated my life to my country as was expected. I appreciated my subordinates and they respected me in turn. In those years I also gained the dearest friend of my life.” Vossler set the empty jug on the bedside table, looming above Basch as he spoke, his words slurred and angry and honest. “I may have driven him away with my actions, but you’re the one who took his life.”

Basch let his eyes drop from Vossler; he couldn’t handle the wild fury in his features, nor the untamed sorrow in his eyes. Who had Gabranth killed that had left Vossler so distraught? The answer was hidden behind Vossler’s scowl and sneer and the secret left Basch guessing wildly.

Vossler stared as though he expected a response, but Basch could not say a single thing, the depths of silence between them immense and crushing.

Then Basch felt Vossler’s hand on his jaw, his fingers brushing against week old stubble as they moved up to cup his cheek.

“The worst part is you could be him.”

Basch snapped his head up at those words, wincing at the pull on his neck as he met Vossler’s distant gaze.

Then whatever daze Vossler had been in to touch Basch so freely broke, replaced quickly with his usual tirade of anger. Vossler pulled his hand away as if it had been burned, eyes darting around for a moment before grabbing the clay jug and smashing it against the wall. He turned his wrath on the shelves full of potions and herbs and containers, then to the furniture of the small hut.

Vossler continued his path of chaos as he retreated from the cabin, drunk and loud and stumbling. Basch buried his face in his hands, unsure of how to interpret Vossler’s words. His heart pounded painfully in his chest and he was unsure if it was from fearing Vossler’s outburst or from the unexpected softness of Vossler’s touch.

Basch’s breathing slowly returned to normal, but he could do little but think as the candles snuffed out one by one leaving him surrounded by destruction and darkness.

...

Upon waking, Basch drank from the pitcher of water at his bedside, gulping down the liquid madly as though he’d been traversing the Westersand instead of lying weakly in his bed. For the first time that morning Basch realized swallowing had finally been reduced to a dull ache and he was desperate to wash the taste of the bitter, earthy potions from his mouth. By Basch’s rather hazy recollection he believed he’d been in the village for a week and only now did he finally feel as though he was starting to mend, the strength returning to his body.

As sunlight filtered through the gaps in the thatched roof it illuminated the disorder Vossler had left in his rage the previous night; looking around Basch could see the shattered clay container, the crushed herbs dusting the floor, and Vossler’s usual perch lying in splinters. Vossler’s words the night before had shaken Basch to his core and he could still feel the ghost of rough fingertips on his cheek.

Basch could not fathom what Vossler had meant by his words; a tiny wriggling feeling inside him hoped for a certain answer, but Vossler had been drunk and confused and angry and Basch wasn’t sure he could put any confidence in how truthful he was during the encounter.

The possibilities were chewing him up from the inside though, leaving his thoughts muddled and his gut coiling and tangling like a pit of snakes. It left Basch on edge and unable to concentrate on his book, his eyes constantly flicking expectantly toward the doorway.

Basch didn’t need to wait long for Vossler to reappear.

Vossler entered the hut quietly, armored and masked, veiled eyes dark as the abyss. He was breathing heavily, scarred chest rising and falling as he shut the door behind him. He looked more animal than man as he took slow cautious steps to Basch’s side.

“An envoy from Archades is here to take you home, Judge. Our chief must have sent a messenger directly to Larsa informing him of your condition. I’m afraid they’ll be too late, though.”

Vossler pulled a dagger from its sheath at his hip and Basch recognized the austere blade, had seen it many times in Vossler’s hands during their years of service together. Vossler’s fingers tightened on the grip as he hesitated, then the blade was to Basch’s throat, a hair’s breadth away from slicing his skin.

“You’ll forgive me my promise of a warrior’s death. It appears I lied.” Vossler’s jaw clenched tight as he whispered, “Any final words, Judge? It’s your last chance to try.”

Basch swallowed, ignoring the burn of his throat and the prick of the knife piercing skin. He could only manage one word, his voice ragged and raspy and rough with disuse.

“Vossler.”

And Vossler froze, inhaling in a sudden panic. Basch continued on, voice cracked and broken, but _his_.

“It’s me,” He whispered, trembling hand reaching out to touch Vossler’s wrist, his fingers finding warm skin.

Vossler dropped the knife, the blade crashing to the floor forgotten. Basch could not see Vossler’s face, but his eyes were wide and full of disbelief. He mumbled Basch’s name before he staggered a few steps back, reaching for the chair he wouldn’t find. He backed into the wall, unable to take his eyes from Basch as he slid weakly to the floor.

The garif medicineman and Larsa chose that moment to enter, neither giving Vossler’s crumpled form much more than a cursory glance before attending to Basch.

When the healer noticed the blood smeared on his neck he gave Basch a knowing look, but remained silent, instead reaching for another of his potions and uncorking it and nudging it between Basch’s lips. Larsa was beside himself, chattering and uncharacteristically flustered at the extent of Basch’s injuries. Everything was happening at once and Basch tried to listen as Larsa mentioned returning to Rabanastre for its closer location, but a sudden exhaustion overtook him as the tonic took effect. It was difficult to keep his eyes open and as his head lolled to the side the last thing he saw was Vossler slinking out of the cabin, gaze focused on the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

Basch didn’t know how long Larsa had sat by his bedside before he woke, only knew that the moon was already high in the sky and the braziers set around the room had burned low. Larsa was working by candlelight, ink and quills and parchment spread out over the table by Basch’s bedside.

“Lord Larsa,” Basch began, stopping when the boy looked up startled, stray ink staining the paper. It was still difficult to speak, but the words came easier now, though his voice sounded odd and strained to his own ears.

“Oh, you’re awake; you do not know how relieved I am.” Larsa set aside the quill, turning to face Basch. “When Lady Ashe sent word you had not arrived I feared the worst. I sent scouts out in search of you or your ship or any information at all. Imagine my surprise when a garif hunter gave the message that you were in Jahara and gravely injured.”

“The wreckage of the ship is by the Phon Coast,” Basch answered after clearing his throat and flinching at the tight flash of pain the action left. “The pilot offered to take the scenic route along the sea. Please, you must send someone to recover what might be left of his body, sire.”

“Of course, no wonder my scouts could not locate you nor any traces of your ship, I sent them inland as I did not expect you to take a longer course. And I will have it done at once.”

Larsa tidied his parchments into a pile, gathering them in his arms before standing. He turned to go to fulfill Basch’s request, but hesitated a moment, lingering at the foot of Basch’s bed.

“Who was the man in your hut when I arrived? He was dressed in their armor but was no garif.”

“Vossler Azelas.” Basch said softly, his voice catching on the name.

“Ah, yes. I remember him from the Leviathan. He yet lives? Curious.” Larsa’s voice was the carefully guarded tone of a politician, and Basch felt an overwhelming need to defend Vossler, to somehow explain their complicated and contentious past in a way that wouldn’t simply cement Larsa’s previous judgment of Vossler as a villain. Basch’s internal strife must have flickered across his face, because Larsa gave a disarming smile, and reached out his hand to touch Basch’s shoulder. “Please rest, we will speak more in the morning. I am glad you remain among the living, my friend.”

The next morning brought Larsa with it as promised, sitting patiently at Basch’s bedside before the sun had even broken over the horizon, Basch began a raspy apology for making him wait but Larsa shook his head, quieting Basch.

“No it is I who should apologize, you should be resting and yet I’m disturbing you. I am needed back in Archades and I did not want to leave before saying farewell.”

“To me?” Basch questioned, his confusion having nothing to do with the early hours.

“You should stay here until you are better, Basch. I fear that if I bring you back to the Capitol so soon you will push yourself to resume your duties. Here perhaps, among your friends, you can relax and heal.”

Basch made a face, the corner of his mouth pulling his bandages. He knew the truth in Larsa’s words, unsurprised by how well Larsa could predict him. Yet the idea of leaving Larsa’s side made his gut churn uneasily.

“My Lord, there is wisdom in what you say, but I cannot simply abandon my duties and leave you half a continent away.”

Larsa smiled and shook his head. “Those soldiers you hand-picked to remain at my side have done just that for the past week. You trust them, as do I. Rest, Basch.” Larsa patted the back of Basch’s hand while avoiding the bandages before he stood, giving Basch another brief smile. “Return when you are able, I am sure we have much to discuss when your voice no longer pains you.”

“Thank you, Larsa.” Basch watched the young lord leave, settling back amongst his blankets as the door shut behind him. The sun was only just cresting the horizon, and Basch could hear birds singing faintly outside the windows as morning dawned. Despite that, the comfort of the bed and his exhaustion lulled him back into deep slumber.

When Basch awoke again it was to sunlight pouring in through the windows and Vaan and Penelo sitting cross legged at the bottom of his bed, a card game dealt between them, the space between his ankles the discard pile.

“Hey you’re awake,” Vaan observed, the warmth of his grin rivaling the sun. “We’ve been here all morning keeping you company.”

“While embarrassing himself by losing last week’s pay to me.” Penelo added, her tone cheeky as she shifted to face Basch.

“Apologies that I’ve been such a bore during your visit.” Basch said as he struggled to sit up, settling against the pillows with Vaan’s help.

Penelo gave him a reassuring smile, gathering the cards from where Vaan had left them scattered on the bottom of the bed and shuffling the deck together before slipping them back in her pocket.

“We’re just glad you’re alright. Everyone was in a state of panic wondering what happened to you when you didn’t arrive to the banquet. And then when Ashe sent word to Larsa that you hadn’t arrived he did everything in his power to find you. I’ve never seen him as rattled as when he brought you back here.” Penelo patted the back of Basch’s hand. “He really cares about you, as do we all. I’m glad you’ll be here while you’re recovering.”

Vaan nodded his assent, resting his elbows on his knees. “You get to make up for the whole last year of missing out on us.”

Vaan’s smile then dimmed as he bit inside his cheek, a tell-tale sign he’d been contemplating something as he changed the subject abruptly. “Y’know Larsa couldn’t find your ship. No one had any clue until that garif messenger arrived in the Capitol. Was there really no way to get a message sent here instead? It’s so much closer and Penelo and I would have come to get you in our ship.”

“Because you want to show it off.”

Vaan shot Penelo a look. “I’m being serious. Plus I already have plans to show Basch our ship when he can get around better.”

Basch watched on and felt his familiar fondness for Vaan and Penelo as they fell into their good-natured bickering.

“I appreciate the offer, but there were circumstances beyond being unable to physically ask for help to send a message.” Basch said at a distance, unsure of how much he was willing to divulge about Vossler, his name still synonymous to traitor in their eyes.

“That’s vague.” Penelo complained, frowning. “What sort of circumstances? You know you can tell us.”

Basch sighed, knowing the two would eventually wheedle the truth from him, he was confined to his bed for an unforeseeable amount of time and both Vaan and Penelo had the limitless curiosity and determination of youth.

“There was someone in the village I knew that I had believed dead. Even if I had been able to send a message I couldn’t have left without telling him the truth of my identity.”

Penelo perked up, interested. “Who was it?”

Basch dropped his eyes, his answer low.

“Vossler.”

Vaan leaned forward, his jaw dropping. “But we saw the Shiva go down, there’s no way he could have survived that.”

“I also thought as such but it’s no more improbable than the wreck I survived.”

“So he’s been alive all this time in Jahara? Living in secret? But you two were so close; did he really not tell you he was alive because of what happened on the Leviathan?” Penelo looked pensive, the thought of Vossler’s betrayal obviously on her mind.

“No, rather he believed my lie along with the rest of Ivalice. He believed I was Noah and plotted revenge for the man he thought me to be.”

Penelo furrowed her brows. “He really didn’t recognize you as you?”

Basch shook his head. “Without our voices and scars and certain mannerisms differentiating us it was always difficult to tell us apart. Even in our youth we would change places to confuse our mother and our tutors. So it only makes sense that when news broke after the final battle that you two and Ashe were the only survivors and that Larsa had returned to the Capitol with Gabranth, my death was the logical assumption. He knew I would fight Noah and that only one of us would survive. In the state I was in, he only saw what I had persuaded Ivalice to see. If I had known he’d lived I would have told him the truth myself.” Basch sighed. “I would have found him before this.”

“I still can’t believe he was alive this whole time,” Vaan mused again before his expression crumpled under Basch’s gaze. “If that’s the case then I’m sorry we left him like that, for your sake Basch. Traitor or not he was—is important to you.”

“Yes,” Basch agreed quietly, eyes sliding from Vaan’s face to stare at his scarred and bandaged hands, trying not to summon to mind the way Vossler’s body had crumpled upon discovering Basch’s truth. How through his mask only dark eyes were visible; finally unclouded, the hatred bleeding away to leave two dark oceans of regret.

Each time Basch and Vossler parted it left more stains of bad memories, more misunderstandings, left more of an aching void in Basch’s core unable to be filled or ignored. For once Basch wanted the world to not conspire to keep his existence a lie and to not keep Vossler in the dark.

Penelo must have seen some distant look fall across Basch’s face because suddenly she was up and tugging Vaan off the bed and to his feet.

“I completely forgot, we were supposed to go fetch Ashe as soon as you woke, c’mon Vaan.”

“Oh right, we’ll be back in a little bit.” Penelo pulled Vaan from the room, their voices drifting back to Basch as they began to argue again outside the door.

Alone again, Basch settled back in his bed, thoughts on Vossler, the same thoughts orbiting his brain that he’d had for the past week. Basch wondered distantly if once he was healed and able to return to Jahara if Vossler would still be there, waiting.

…

Time passed slowly as Basch healed. Although Vaan and Penelo were constant companions and Ashe visited whenever her schedule allowed, Basch still felt tortured by the unending prison of bedrest, his restlessness becoming a bone-deep gnawing nuisance. The itch of his wounds knitting back together was maddening but it could not hold a candle to the ache that pierced his heart each time Basch’s mind wandered to thoughts of Vossler. If any of Basch’s companions noticed his distance or wondered what thoughts weighed heavily on his mind during his hours of quiet contemplation they respected him enough not to pry, keeping conversation light and friendly.

With exception to Vaan of course one night a couple weeks later, when the two were sitting alone at the small table on Basch’s balcony, a casual dice game thrown between them. Basch had finally been granted permission to leave his bed and room as he pleased, although he now walked with a noticeable limp and the skin surrounding his new scar remained numb, the ruined nerves beneath his skin unable to heal.

Dusk set quickly as they played the game, the light from Basch’s room only barely illuminating the symbols on the dice. Vaan tossed one last time and squinted before giving up and leaning back in his chair, watching darkness slowly wash over the rest of the city.

“You’re always thinking of Vossler, aren’t you?”

Basch jerked his gaze over to Vaan but his features were obscured by darkness as he stared straight ahead and for a moment Basch thought he’d imagined the question. Then Vaan faced him, his eyes catching the light of the room and making him appear older than his years.

“I knew that day when we watched the Shiva wreck that you’d lost more than you let on. I’ve spent my whole life around people who have lost everything,” He paused to swallow a lump in his throat. “I hate that I can recognize that look so easily. But that’s what I saw in your eyes that day. Someone who looked like he’d lost everything.”

“It felt that way,” Basch whispered honestly, ruminating on the frustration and helplessness he felt that day, striking Vossler down then watching the Shiva wreck and burn. “It seemed that another piece of my past had been turned against me and destroyed.”

“But he’s alive and that means you don’t have to leave things like this. Have you thought about going back to confront him when you’re healed?”

And Basch should answer that as soon as he was capable he planned to return to the Capitol and return to Larsa’s side where he belonged, as was expected of him, but his eyes slid to the floor and he gave a defeated sigh, nodding slightly.

“I’ve thought of little else, truthfully.”

Vaan’s expression softened and he busied his hands picking up the handful of dice, tossing them between nimble fingers. “Then you should, Basch. I think you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Vaan took his leave, pocketing his dice and giving Basch one last meaningful look before parting the balcony curtain and ducking back into the palace. Basch sighed and let himself relax in ever the growing darkness.

Around him came the soft sounds of insects singing and nocturnal animals venturing out into the night. The air was warm and humid and the sky was clear, a crescent moon rising slowly in the east. Small stars blinked into sight one by one in the dark blue vastness above him and Basch looked southward, wondering if Vossler was looking up at the same constellations.

…

Basch made an unimpressed sound as he handed over entirely too much gil to the moogle girl, her eyes sparkling as she quickly slipped the coins into her apron. She gestured to a chocobo to her left, leaving Basch to untie the creature and throw his pack over its flank himself.

Vaan and Penelo were standing next to the chocobo paddock, both watching as Basch swung himself up onto the bird with some difficulty.

“Are you sure you’re alright to go alone? Vaan and I can be ready at a moment’s notice. We wouldn’t mind.”

Basch smiled fondly and nodded. He scratched the chocobo’s neck, ruffling the feathers as the bird trilled warmly. “It’s just across the plains. I’m sure I’ll have no difficulties getting there with this girl leading the way.”

“You know I’ll still worry.”

Vaan elbowed her side gently. “We’ve all seen what Basch can survive; honestly I don’t think anything could take him down now.”

Penelo elbowed back much harder. “Don’t jinx him!”

Basch chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, please, I’ll be back before the next flight leaves for Archades.” He turned the bird toward the plains but then halted, remembering one last thing. Basch dug through his pack, revealing a crushed and battered parchment. He handed it to Penelo, who took it gingerly, avoiding the bloodstains.

“My apologies for its condition, it was on my person during the wreck. I was to deliver it personally from Lord Larsa.” He smiled down at her as her cheeks turned pink, then his smile turning to laughter as Vaan suddenly plucked it from her hands and ran off, unrolling it to read while shouting goodbye in Basch’s direction.

Basch watched a moment longer as Penelo gave him a fleeting wave, then spurred the bird into a run, Penelo’s shouts as she gave chase fading behind him.

…

Basch rode into the garif village, his appearance garnering familiar waves and nods of acknowledgement from the villagers. After asking a young garif directions, Basch urged the chocobo further on into the camp, the bird ruffling its feathers and plodding on in response. Upon reaching his destination, Basch tied the bird to a stake outside Vossler’s hut to discourage it from returning to its owner prematurely and rapped his knuckles against the doorframe, his voice a low rasp as he spoke Vossler’s name.

Vossler didn’t answer but Basch entered the small cabin anyway. An iron brazier crackled in the corner, leaving the interior slashed in flickering gold light and heavy shadows, illuminating Vossler himself cross legged on his bedroll, hunched over with his back to the door.

Basch crossed the space and took it upon himself to crouch down and sit across from Vossler, the other man’s face soft and wretched and beautiful in the low light. Cradled in his hands was a scorched and blackened glove from the armor he had worn up until his time on the Shiva, the twisted metal ugly and sharp against his fingertips.

“What are you doing here?” Vossler’s voice was lifeless, the question toothless. “I have proven once again why you should not trust me, Basch.” Vossler exhaled in frustration, and tightened his hands on the gauntlet, the metal slicing effortlessly through his fingers although Vossler paid it no mind.

“It was a misunderstanding,” Basch began, but Vossler gave a violent shake of his head, his brows furrowed in anger.

“You cannot forgive all my transgressions, old friend. Not that easily. Not when my anger and desperation has pushed me to try and kill you. Again.” Vossler’s voice was ragged with self-inflicted rage that abruptly receded into calm misery.

“You did not know it was I.”

“Does that even matter? The conclusion would have been the same; you would have been lost to me once again. In the past I justified my decisions as what was right for the crown, right for Dalmasca. Now the man you see before you is a lifeless husk driven only by revenge. Forget me, Basch. Please just remember me for who I was, not what I’ve become.”

Basch stared at Vossler, ice in his gaze, lips turned down in a snarling frown at his pleas. “I have mourned your loss for over a year and you think to ask me to simply forget you. You have said many irrational things over the years Vossler but this is foolish even for you.”

“What would you have me do, Basch?” Vossler’s voice was tight, holding back anger and desperation and anguish. “I made a mistake and I would have killed you, my anger and blindness would have destroyed the one last person I hold dear, how can I even look at myself the same way?”

Vossler’s descent into panic was like slipping off a cliff, each word bringing him closer and closer to some truth at the bottom of the chasm. Basch sensed how close he was to something important, something Vossler had hinted at that drunken night in Jahara, and prodded further, pushing Vossler nearer to the edge.

“You need to see yourself the way I see you.”

Vossler tossed his head, his teeth biting deep into his bottom lip then gave an exasperated bark of a laugh. “You will never see me the way I wish you to see me.”

And with that truth, like a puzzle, suddenly all the pieces and all the words finally fell together, leaving Basch dazed by the hopefulness of his realization, his face falling slack.

“Gabranth.” The name fell heavy from Basch’s lips, like a black hole pulling all the air and warmth from the room.

“What of him?” Vossler asked, voice low and dangerous, tensing himself like a cornered animal.

“I refused to believe it before. I overheard you say you hated him because he killed the one you loved. All that time you meant me?” And Basch’s voice was different, not just the deep scarred rasp but the tone was gentle and pleading in a way Basch had never been toward him before and Vossler was a man doomed to give up his last secrets, the ones he’d promised to take to his grave. “That night you touched me—”

“Yes I meant you.” Vossler interrupted, tone turned weary, his gaze dropping away from the insistent look in Basch’s eyes.

“And how did you love me, Vossler?”

And Vossler could not raise his eyes as he spoke the truth. “In the way I would not dare speak of while you lived.”

A beat of silence passed before Basch answered, voice tight and tremulous and flecked with the barely restrained pangs of hope. “You believed I would not reciprocate such love.”

“You would not.”

“Yet I have loved no other.” Basch admitted freely with such singular finality that Vossler looked up, surprise written on his features.

“I believed the endeavor foolish,” Basch continued, his voice straining as he forced the words to his lips. “I hesitated as I did not wish to ruin our friendship, yet many nights I laid awake next to you wishing for the courage to reach out.” Basch’s fingers curled and uncurled reflexively and his voice turned bitter, his brows furrowing at the memory of own decisions. “And after being framed and imprisoned I only wished for a second chance to tell you so I wouldn’t die in that cage with yet another regret. However even being given that chance I still did not seize the opportunity and for my cowardice I was given my role in your defeat on the Shiva. I am as much at fault as you for...for this not coming to light until now.”

Basch’s confession hung between them, so heavy it made the air hard to breathe.

“So many years of misunderstandings…so much time wasted.” Vossler broke the silence as he whispered more to himself than Basch.

Then Vossler reached a decision in his mind and extended his hand, setting the glove aside and hesitantly grasping Basch’s hand in his instead. He looked deep in Basch’s eyes, searching for the truth in Basch’s words.

“But perhaps this could be a third chance.” Vossler said softly as their fingers twined, rough and callused, more accustomed to swords than skin.

It was that easy.

Basch inhaled deeply and then tightened his grip on Vossler, tugging his hand over to rest on the meat of his thigh.

“Vossler I want your hands on me.”

And Basch could hear the shaky inhale as Vossler leaned close, his fingers heavy as they tightened their hold on Basch’s flesh.

Their armor was shed quickly, heavy pieces piling up haphazardly on the floor in their haste. When Basch had Vossler stripped he slowed his pace, fingers ghosting across the scarred ruin of Vossler’s chest and waist.

“Not what it once was, I know.” Vossler mumbled, pulling Basch’s hand up to his mouth, lips pressing reverently against the pad of each fingertip.

“I no longer look how you remember me either,” Basch said softly, his fingers pressing a little more insistently against Vossler’s lips. “But I believed I would only ever see you again in my dreams, words cannot describe how perfect you look to me.”

Vossler opened his mouth in a heavy exhale before slipping Basch’s fingers inside, the feeling of tight wet heat and soft slide of tongue traveling straight to Basch’s cock.

Then Vossler’s hands were on Basch’s chest, pressing him down onto the furs, nudging his thighs apart as Vossler kissed down his chest, down his navel, down the soft trail of hair leading to his cock.

“Let me take care of you.” Vossler pleaded; his breath hot against sensitive skin before taking Basch in his mouth fully, Basch unable to temper the low moan that escaped his lips at the feeling.

Basch buried his fingers in Vossler’s hair, grip gentle as he followed along with the bob of Vossler’s head. Basch arched at the feeling of lips and tongue wrapped around him and Vossler held his hips like a vice, until Basch whined low in his throat, his body tightening and squirming as it fought for completion.

Then Vossler pulled away, shifting to search behind his bed, the sudden absence of his heat sending a tremor down Basch’s spine.

Vossler leaned back over and Basch did not care where the oil came from, only that Vossler had it, his fingers coated and slick as he pressed inside, hesitance and desperation warring in his touch. Vossler placed soft kisses on the length of Basch’s abdomen, mumbling words of affection against his skin as he slid another finger deep into the heat of Basch’s body.

When Basch could no longer stand the slow, gentle stretch he begged Vossler for more, years of want forcing his impatience.

“I do not wish to hurt you.”

But Basch gave a half grin, his fingers sliding up the back of Vossler’s neck and gripping a handful of hair.

“Even when you try to hurt me you do not.”

Vossler kissed Basch, soft and slow, the bare emotion in the action making Basch’s heart ache in his chest. Then Vossler nudged Basch to roll on his stomach and knelt behind him, broad hands gripped tight on his hips.

Basch gave a sharp gasp as Vossler slid inside him in one smooth motion, instinct and desperation driving him impossibly deep. Basch moaned low in his throat, shifting to accommodate the hard press of Vossler’s cock against his insides. It had been so long since Basch had allowed anyone this close to him and he ached in his need for it, his need for Vossler. He wanted to be closer, wanted to see that it was Vossler’s cock fucking into him and stretching him open.

Vossler draped himself over Basch’s back, fingers pressing into the divots between Basch’s ribs.

“You feel better than I could have ever dreamed.” Vossler breathed into Basch’s ear, punctuating his words with kisses down the column of Basch’s neck. “Gods how I’ve wanted you.”

Basch craned his neck, nosing Vossler’s jaw close and claiming his lips in quick breathless kisses. He sank his teeth in deep on the last one, tugging Vossler’s bottom lip sharply as he pulled away.

“Prove it,” Basch whispered, the challenge hot on his tongue, a needy spark crackling beneath his skin with every touch from Vossler fanning the flames.

Vossler growled, voice muffled as he bit into the juncture between Basch’s shoulder and neck. He leaned up, broad hands moving to grip the curves of Basch’s hips. Without another word Vossler drew back and slammed into Basch, his pace brutal and punishing and passionate and everything Basch could have ever wanted.

Basch’s fingers gripped the furs below him tightly, his face buried against his forearms to try to muffle the strangled whines and gasps that Vossler’s cock forced to his lips.

“Is this what you wanted?” Vossler panted, his fingers indenting Basch’s skin hard enough to bruise as he pulled their hips together again and again.

Basch’s only answer was a raspy moan and his knees sliding further apart, inviting Vossler to fuck into him deeper.

Vossler exhaled, shaky and needy, his fingers crawling over Basch’s slick skin, desperate for the warmth and touch.

“The things I want to do with you,” Vossler trailed off, lips pressed again to Basch’s shoulder. “I want,” but he didn’t finish the thought, instead pulling free from Basch and flipping him to land heavily on his back. Vossler’s lips were instantly upon Basch as he settled between his thighs, cock sliding easily back into the heat of Basch’s body.

The atmosphere between them changed then, the painful throbbing desperation mellowing as their kisses turned tender and needful, Vossler’s thrusts slow and distracted.

“I love you.” Basch whispered, wrapping his arms around Vossler’s torso, fingers splayed across broad shoulder blades. He wondered if Vossler could feel how hard his heart was pounding in his chest, or if he noticed the anxiousness in Basch’s voice, to be able to say the words so openly, so plainly as he and Vossler were still connected so intimately. They had both bared so much of themselves this night and it seemed as though confessing their love was the final layer between them being peeled away after years of misunderstandings and lost chances.

“I have always loved you.” Vossler whispered back, his voice gentle and sincere in the quiet of the cabin.

Basch gasped and gripped Vossler’s shoulders tight as he began to fuck again in earnest and when Basch came it was with the feeling of Vossler’s release hot and slick deep inside him and Vossler’s hand tight around his cock.

They laid in each other’s arms, sweat and come cooling on prickled skin, the fire burned down low and left the room in shadowed chill. Vossler’s fingers traced along the slope of Basch’s hip, a soft whisper against the bruises he’d left earlier in his desperation.

“Hold a moment,” Basch asked, retreating from Vossler’s embrace. He stood, crossing the room to pile more logs upon the embers of fire, wanting the light, wanting to see Vossler stretched out and sated in the warm glow. Vossler raised himself up as Basch returned, his arms winding around Basch’s midsection.

“Basch don’t leave,” Vossler said suddenly, his voice strangled by unburied emotion as he pressed his lips against the curve of Basch’s hip. “Stay with me tonight.” And Vossler was not a man to beg, yet here he was on his knees.

Basch slid down, sinking back into Vossler’s bed and Vossler’s arms, pulling their bodies flush.

“Nothing would please me more.” Basch answered, tumbling Vossler unceremoniously back onto the furs.

…

A gap in the slats of Vossler’s hut let in the gold rays of sunrise, warming Basch where the sunlight cut across his hips and thighs. Basch awoke still wrapped in Vossler’s embrace, his cheek pressed to the dark hair coating Vossler’s chest, his hand resting on the warm skin of his lower belly. Basch’s fingers stroked over his skin, following the hills and slopes of muscle taut beneath Vossler’s flesh.

“If this is a dream do not wake me,” Vossler groaned as he woke, shifting his body to pull Basch closer, nose and lips pressed against the tender stretch of skin of Basch’s temple, though he could not feel it.

“Then it is my pleasure to tell you it is not a dream.” Basch answered, lips trailing along the curve of Vossler’s jaw.

“Makes sense,” Vossler chuckled softly, burying his fingers in the scruff of hair at the base of Basch’s skull. “In my dreams your hair is still long. I prefer it that way.”

“As do I.” Basch agreed, leaning up on his elbow to face Vossler, a sad sort of smile on his lips. “Perhaps I can let it grow again. Noah did not keep short hair his entire life. He had it shorn when I left Landis, out of spite perhaps. I thought it yet another way he chose to distance us.”

“You are beautiful either way you choose.” Vossler mumbled, tugging Basch down to close the distance between their lips.

“I love you.” Basch whispered again, losing track at how many times he’d said the words during the night, his heart breaking like a dam to spill the love and need he’d locked up for so long. Vossler made a sound low in his throat, clutching Basch impossibly tight in his need to bridge the distance between them.

“I’ve never wanted what you make me want,” Vossler growled, voice low and trembling against Basch’s jaw, his lips catching on the scratch of morning stubble.

The words seemed to take Vossler by surprise and he ducked his head shamefully until Basch thread his fingers through Vossler’s hair, tugging up as he kissed the sharp curve of his cheekbone, encouraging Vossler to look into his eyes. “Such as?”

It took a moment for Vossler to answer, the words tentative and defeated as they tumbled from his lips.

“Family,” He whispered, burying his face again in the hollow of Basch’s neck. “A home in the truest sense of the word, beyond what simply warring for a homeland gains.”

Basch’s heart clenched tightly in his chest, and he knew Vossler could feel it when he swallowed around the hard lump in his throat.

“You would want such with me?” Basch tightened his grip, the dark strands of Vossler’s hair spilling between his fingertips.

“If only our circumstances would allow such.” Vossler mourned.

“Our circumstances are self-imposed.” Basch argued, the tentative moment between them shattering as easily as it was created.

“What would you have me do, Basch? I cannot return to Rabanastre , and living in the Capitol,” Vossler shook his head out of Basch’s grip, eyes cold when he pulled back to match his gaze. “After what I have done it is an impossibility.”

“That is in the past, Vossler. Things are different now; they can be different for you. You are not as doomed as you believe.”

“You say that because you chose right, Basch. The victors write history and in the stories I was only an obstacle to your triumph. Try as I might, I am not the same man you knew in the past. My decisions have reshaped me into less than I once was.”

“The man standing before me is no different than I remember.” Basch pulled away, searching the ground for his clothes. His voice was low and quiet in the still of the morning. “It is only his words I no longer recognize.”

Basch dressed slowly, stretching out the moments he could remain in Vossler’s presence. When Basch settled the heavy breastplate over his shoulders, Vossler finally turned his head to acknowledge him.

“So this is farewell.” Vossler said distantly, unable to raise his eyes to meet Basch’s, fingers lingering distractedly on the bruises bitten into his collar.

“It need not be,” Basch attempted again, feeling his heart strain futilely behind his ribs. “Let me speak to Lord Larsa, he would understand. He is not the nobles we knew in our youth. He is good, forgiving.”

“I am a _traitor_ , Basch.” The words stuck in Vossler’s throat, and he spit them out with a vehemence that curdled from self-contempt. “You may have forgotten but I cannot. My own actions have left me scarred and bitter. A year of learning to forgive and accept my past and yet I am still filled with so much anger and guilt. How am I to fit myself back into the society I betrayed?” Vossler shook his head, dark eyes narrowed, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “No, it is easier for the world to believe me dead.”

“I believed you dead once,” Basch whispered, soft words belying the white knuckled grip he clutched his gauntlets in. “It was not easier.”

Basch finished dressing, the clink of metal clasps and creaking leather the only sounds to break the silence. Vossler remained where he was, hands lying limp on the fur pulled over his lap, his head hung low, hair falling over hunched shoulders.

Basch crossed to the door, his blood hot in his veins and his heart thudding nervously in his chest. Basch hesitated for a moment, gauntlet laid on the doorframe as he half turned to face Vossler once again.

“Since you will not venture to the Capitol, I will return when I am able. I cannot say when that will be, but I do not wish to lose you once more.”

It was Basch’s last attempt, and the words felt hollow, echoes of Basch’s desires rather than the reality of their situation. His ventured on, needing to speak his peace before leaving.

“If that is what you also want, then stay here in the village and wait for me. If not, then I will keep your existence secret and you shall have your wish, Vossler: the world shall forget you even if I never will.”

Much went unsaid about Basch’s uncertainty, how the cold ache of those words numbed his chest, but it was the best Basch could offer; while his heart may be, his life was not his own to give.

Vossler could not answer or chose not to answer, yet it was an answer all the same. Basch shut the door behind him and untied the chocobo, the bird giving a cranky ‘wark’ at being restrained all night. Basch swung himself into the saddle slowly, hoping that Vossler would emerge from his cabin and stop his retreat.

Vossler did not chase after him though and each step as Basch rode from the village sent him in a downward spiral into frustrated despair. It felt as though his heart pounded out of rhythm, pumping acid through his veins. He felt listless in his anguish yet his teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached. Basch felt a dull ache grow in his chest and knew with certainty that he had squandered his third chance as well.

…

It had been several days since Basch had parted from Vossler. In public, he had remained as he was required: intimidating and stoic, an unapproachable judge silent behind his mask. In private he had been left broken and wanting, his fingers itching for a touch lost to him yet again. Vossler’s words from their single night together haunted him, that he was once again letting his chance slip between his fingers because of unwavering devotion to duty.

It was not the first time Basch had contemplated what it would mean to break his vows and live for himself; but it was the first time that Basch actually wanted all that entailed, yearned for the traitorous freedom if it meant a chance at life by Vossler’s side.

Yet the selfish side of him desired both, he wanted to uphold his promise to Noah and Larsa and he wanted to make new promises to Vossler here together in the Capitol. Basch felt the quiet displeasure he kept tempered deep within himself rage, the emotions mourning over the unfair turns his life had taken. After all he had given the world all he wanted was one simple thing for himself that Vossler was more than willing to give.

If the other inhabitants of the palace noticed Basch’s quiet desperation they did not comment on it, leaving Basch to lament his own unerring loyalty and Vossler’s stubborn mindset in peace.

The morning before Basch’s duties began found him quietly contemplating on the balcony that connected his room to Larsa’s. Most mornings they took breakfast together, watching the flowers open their petals to the sun, daylight chasing away the chill of the night. This morning was no different; Basch could hear Larsa emerging from his room, his maid in tow rattling as she carried a tray overflowing with food and dishes.

After she had set down the platter and returned inside, Larsa’s voice cut through the dew-soaked stillness of the morning. “You have changed, Basch. And not in the way an accident such as yours would change someone, no it is something more.”

Basch lifted his head at Larsa’s words as the young lord joined Basch at the railing. He had been staring blankly at the gardens and fountains painstakingly arranged and cultivated several floors below and feeling nothing in the face of their beauty.

“More transpired while I was away than simply the wreck.” Basch offered, draping his forearms on the railing and leaning over.

“I thought as much. It has to do with the former Captain Azelas, does it not?”

Basch didn’t try to deny it, Larsa was perceptive as always and he simply nodded, eyes carefully diverted from his young lord.

“We have known one another for over ten years; we fought in the war side by side and remained friends afterwards until I was framed and imprisoned.” Basch paused, his voice straining painfully. “We believed one another dead so reuniting like so…words were said that were long overdue.”

“If that is the case, then why are you moping around the palace like a lovesick child?”

Basch froze, taking a moment to steady himself before meeting Larsa’s gaze with his own.

“Perhaps,” Larsa continued tentatively, “I have experience in such matters and can recognize the emotion when I see it on others.” He admitted quietly before barreling forward with the conversation.

“So if you exchanged words why do you skulk around the palace as though the world has ended?” Larsa looked pensive a moment before comprehension dawned in his eyes. “Ah, is it unrequited?”

Basch could not believe that he was having this particular conversation with his lord, but pressed on, oddly touched that Larsa cared enough to delve into his issues.

“No, our love is mutual. We were simply forced to part. My place is by your side, I cannot abandon my duty to you.”

“Would he not come to the Capitol for you?”

“He believes it unwise.”

“Because of what happened on the Leviathan.” Larsa nodded in understanding.

Basch sighed, gaze turned back to the gardens. “It certainly did not endear himself to either you or Queen Ashe.”

“True. But those were desperate times. I no longer fault him for doing what he felt best for his queen and country. We were all deceived in one way or another. His life would not be in danger from me, here.”

“I said as much,” Basch agreed. “I only wish I could convince him of such.”

“Well don’t give up,” Larsa said, turning to Basch to give him a smile. “You deserve happiness. And if that comes in the form of one Vossler Azelas then so be it.”

“I…thank you.” Basch said haltingly, Larsa’s careful optimism contagious.

“Maybe he’ll surprise you.” Larsa suggested, settling himself at the small table to situate his breakfast.

“It seems as of late that is all Vossler has done.” Basch agreed, sitting down to join him, grateful for any sort of distraction from his ceaseless thoughts on the other man.  
…

The day passed slowly, Basch a silent wraith looming over Larsa’s shoulder as Larsa attended meetings and parsed the parchments littering his desk. As the day wound down and dignitaries both local and foreign retired outside the palace, Basch finally removed his helmet, setting it on the edge of the desk and running his fingers through sweat damp hair.

Basch noticed Larsa’s eyes pause on the new scar twisting down the side of his face, the skin still tight and pink as it healed. Even Basch wasn’t used to the new face he saw in the mirror yet, preferring any interactions with other inhabitants of the palace be done through his impassive metal mask.

“Well I think that’s about all I can handle for one day.” Larsa said, leaning back in his chair and stretching.

There was a knock on the door and Larsa visibly deflated, sighing before granting the knocker an audience. One of the palace messengers slipped inside the room, bowing his head in Larsa’s direction.

“Forgive me, Lord Larsa, but I have a message for Judge Gabranth.” The messenger turned to acknowledge Basch. “A visitor is waiting in your sitting room. He would not give his name or reason for his visit and demanded to see you personally. Highly unorthodox. Guards have your room surrounded in precaution at present.”

Basch felt his heart pound harder in his chest, the tiniest sliver of hope itching beneath his skin. Larsa flashed Basch a broad grin and mouthed ‘go’ before shooing Basch toward the door.

“Hurry before the guards decide he’s a threat to the Capitol’s security.”

“Yes, sire.” Basch answered before sliding out the door of Larsa’s office. He asked the pair of guards outside Larsa’s door to attend to the young lord inside his chambers before continuing on the short walk to Basch’s own quarters. A few words dispersed the tangle of guards at attention outside his door and finally Basch opened the door to his sitting room, murmuring a prayer to himself in hopes that Vossler would be inside.

Basch slipped inside, letting out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding as he spied Vossler’s tell-tale bulk among the furniture. As he approached he could see the tension in Vossler’s shoulders and the deep crease between his brows. Contrasting boldly against the luxury of the lounge, Vossler in his garif armor looked a wild animal poised to flee; yet Basch could see the determined purse of his lips, his fingers drumming against his thigh impatiently.

Vossler looked up from the armchair he was perched on, and his brow smoothed as he gave Basch the warm look that passed for a smile from Vossler.

“I wasn’t shackled as I set foot in the palace so perhaps my fears were unfounded.”

“There’s still time to shackle you.” Basch retorted, his gaze all heat, smile sly as he stepped into Vossler’s space.

And their armor crashed together as they met, lips desperate and tongues hot, Basch’s hands in Vossler’s hair pulling tight.

After several frantic moments Vossler turned away for air, panting, his lips moving to Basch’s ear to mutter brokenly.

“I was mistaken, Basch. I cannot continue on as thus. I do not wish us to be parted again.” But his voice was wrecked as though he assumed it inevitable.

Basch looked Vossler in the eyes, his face relieved and understanding, the regret from the last several days they had spent apart bleeding away in a moment.

“The wrongs in your past you’re still tormenting yourself over, know that they have been paid for. You will not find the opposition you expect here. I can promise you that.” Basch tipped Vossler’s chin, their lips meeting once more, soft and tender. His voice was barely above a whisper. “If you wished it, there would be a place for you here. We could make a home, Vossler.”

Vossler exhaled shakily, and pressed their foreheads together, Vossler’s fingers resting on the back of Basch’s neck.

“I wish it.”

And Basch looked up into Vossler’s eyes, wide with a tentative hopefulness Basch etched into his memory, and smiled.

“As do I.”


End file.
